Home for Christmas
by Lala Kate
Summary: When someone we love is just too far away, it takes quite a bit of faith to wish them home for Christmas.


_This is my Mary/Charles Secret Santa fic dedicated to bygone-age on tumblr, based on a prompt I was given. I thought I would share it here, even if we are now into the New Year. I hope you enjoy it. Sheer fluff abounds. :)_

_And I don't own Downton Abbey. Happy New Year, dear readers! _

* * *

"So how cold is it there?"

A slow smile creeps across her face at the eagerness in her son's voice, another pang hitting her squarely in the chest at the distance between him and his father. She strokes the boy's hair, her eyes fixed on brown ones that are too far away.

"Cold," Charles answers with a grin. "Too cold. But at least it's snowing here. Better than that cold rain we get in England that makes our teeth chatter and our bums nearly freeze off."

He demonstrates exaggeratedly, earning himself a look from Mary as he makes George giggle and lean back into his mother's torso. The child's hand then reaches forward to touch the laptop screen, taking his small body along with him, and Charles reaches out towards his at the same time, making physical contact with George as best he can under the circumstances. Her eyes begin to well up, and she swallows hard, hating this overly-emotional state she cannot seem to shrug off, no matter how hard she tries.

"Have you seen Father Christmas anywhere?" the boy questions, nearly breathless from his eagerness. "Does he go to Poland, too?"

Charles shoots her a smile, one she catches immediately and returns, aching for him, needing him, her mind whirling in fifty directions at once as her son sits in rapt attention.

"Of course he does," Charles replies. "But here they call him Saint Nicholas, or Mikolaj, and he's already made his appearance to the Polish boys and girls."

"You mean they already have their presents?" George gasps, looking back to his mother as she tries to quell down a wave of nausea. "How did that happen?"

"Well, he's a busy man," Charles shrugs, and there is a small lapse this time, his words disjointed from his image, understandable but still somewhat aggravating. "Think about it, George. If you had to give gifts to every boy and girl in the world, don't you think it would make sense to break it up a bit so you don't have to do everything on one night?"

He leans back into her chest again, moving against her belly in a way that forces her to take a deep breath. _One, two, three_…she counts, waiting for the nausea to pass, praying she doesn't get sick during their brief time together on Skype.

"I guess so," George answers, his face scrunched in thought. "But isn't that cheating—kind of?"

Charles laughs, and it warms her, and suddenly the three weeks he's been gone feel like an age. Her arms long to hold him, to feel his breath on her skin, his touch on her flesh, his presence in their home, one that brings more merriment than she had realized until his work had taken him away just as December drew nigh.

"I'd call it wise time-management," Charles reasons, image and voice back in synch. "Every good business person has to learn this skill, and Father Christmas is probably one of the best businessmen in the world. Think about it, George."

"Not to mention his PR firm," Mary chimes in, and he grins at her, a grin that reaches through the screen and caresses her soul. "After all, where would he be without them?"

There is a moment then, a moment when she feels how much he misses her, that his ache is as acute as her own, that he longs to have George on his lap and her snuggled into his side. It tugs at her heart, making her wish she could transport him here via the internet, even if only for a few stolen minutes of time.

She'd tell him then. And he would…

"What's a PR form?" George questions, and Charles rolls his eyes playfully.

"A public relations firm," he answers, leaning closer to the screen. "Your mother takes care of public relations, and she is by far one of the best in the business. You should be very proud of her."

The boy breathes in quickly and turns to stare at her with the eyes of a father who never had the chance know him. Thank God George and Charles have bonded so beautifully, and her throat thickens as her past and her present descend on her all at once.

"Do you work for Father Christmas, Mummy?" he inquires, his mouth hanging open in a perfect "O".

"I can't tell you that, George," she responds, catching Charles biting his lower lip half a continent away. "All business related to Father Christmas is top secret and must remain classified."

The boy nods, a soft _Wow_ puffing out from his lips as he looks at his mother with a newly-found reverence.

"Appreciate your mother, George," Charles instructs, regaining the lad's attention. "And take care of her for me, alright? She works very hard all day, you see, so you must keep your toys picked up so she can get some rest at night."

George nods fervently.

"She is tired," the child expounds. "She's been falling asleep on the couch every afternoon, Daddy. I'll try harder to pick up my toys so she won't feel so bad."

She meets his eyes on the screen then, and he gives her a questioning look, trying to discern if she is alright. She kisses George's blonde head, attempting to smile as if nothing is amiss.

"Are you getting enough sleep, Mary?" Charles questions, watching her intently. "Please tell me that you are."

"Are you jokng?" George interjects. "She sleeps all the time now. Grandmama brought us dinner last night because Mummy was too tired to cook, but then she couldn't eat it. She said it bothered her tummy."

Damn it. This is not how this conversation is supposed to go.

"That's enough, George," Mary cuts in. "You needn't worry your father over nothing, especially when he's on the other side of Europe."

Charles gazes back at her, and she knows he won't let it go now, no matter how she might try to dissuade him. There were times it was aggravating to have a husband who was every bit as stubborn as she.

"And you needn't try to assure me you're well if you're not, Mary," Charles states, edging closer to the screen. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"Yes," she huffs in return. "And I'm fine. Truly. Just tired from all of the holiday preparations and such."

Dark eyes narrow back at her, letting her know in no uncertain terms that he would be questioning her further if George were not sitting in her lap.

"When will you be home, Daddy?"

The questions hurts, and she holds her breath expectantly, fearing the worst as he sighs on the other side of the screen.

"I'm not sure, George," Charles admits, looking rather forlorn himself. "I'm hoping I can make it by Christmas, but I can't promise. I wish I could, though. I miss you like crazy."

She sees the boy's chin tremble, and she hugs him to her securely, kissing his head, shushing his tears.

"It's alright," she breathes. "Daddy will be home as soon as he can, and until then we can chat like this."

Damn it—a large swell of sickness pushed its way up her larynx, making her head swim and her stomach lurch.

"Mary, are…" but his question is cut short as she quickly sets George down and races to the loo, losing what little she had managed to eat earlier in three large heaves. She clings to the toilet, breathing in and out, trying to catch her breath as she wipes her eyes yet again. She slumps against the wall momentarily, regaining her balance and making certain her insides have resettled before she gets up to rinse out her mouth.

Damn it. She's pale, and he'll catch that, regardless of the lighting or the clarity their connection. She rubs her cheeks to restore some color, wondering if the gray shadows under her eyes have been there during their entire conversation. The contents of her stomach are flushed away, and she makes her way back to the sofa on shaky legs, sitting next to George, looking at her husband who is now staring at her hard.

"You need to lie down," Charles instructs her, the concern on his face tangible. "And I'm calling your mother. You don't look good, my darling."

"No," Mary insists, breathing in and out slowly. "There's no need to call Mama. I'm fine, Charles. Truly. It's over now."

He eyes her dubiously, chewing on thoughts he's trying to keep to himself.

"She does this a lot since you've been gone, Daddy," George states, making Charles sit up straighter in his seat. "Especially when she's making me breakfast. It's yucky."

Well there it is. So much for waiting until he gets back to tell him something so personal.

George has completely commanded his attention, and his eyes are now boring holes into her through the screen, questioning, wondering, his head shaking back and forth as he inhales audibly. Damn it all. This is not how it was supposed to have happened.

"Mary," he breathes, so close to the screen now she should be able to touch him. "What's going on? Are you…I mean…Are you…?"

The muscles on his face are working overtime, trying to catch up with the evidence just in front of him. He knows, clever man, and there's no use trying to hide anything now. His eyes move from her to George, and she nods silently behind her son, her hand moving slowly to rest on the still flat plains of her stomach, feeling her eyes tear up yet again at the expression of utter shock staring back at her.

"Oh, God," he exclaims, rubbing his chin, moving in his chair, a smile creeping across his face he can't hold back for the life of him. "Really? You're sure?"

She can't help but smile back at him, overcome by his expression, wishing more than ever that he was physically here with her.

"Yes," she smiles, rubbing a small circle just over her naval, looking into her son's very confused face. "I've been sure for two weeks now."

"Sure of what?" George cuts in.

"Sure that I'm perfectly alright," Mary answers, hearing a soft sniff from her screen, watching her husband wipe his cheeks and blink rapidly. "And that we're going to have a very interesting New Year."

More tears spill down his cheeks, and he wipes them unashamedly, making her smile even broader and George all the more confused.

"That's one way of putting it," Charles muses, a burst of laughter erupting from him, one that makes her grin like Christmas has come early. "My God, Mary."

"Why are you both crying?" the boy asks. "Did I do something bad?"

"No, George," Charles states quickly. "Not at all. It's just that we miss each other. And I can't wait to hold my family in my arms again—my entire family."

There is new meaning to that phrase now, and she envisions the small life now growing inside of her, wondering she carries a boy or a girl, hoping he or she can sense the joy brought on by his or her mere existence.

"We can't wait to have you back, either," Mary states, and George's arms wrap around her, almost protectively. "As soon as possible."

He nods, his eyes still blinking away tears, his face looking almost boyish yet lined with fatigue.

"I'm hoping beyond all hopes to be there by Christmas, but…" his voice trails off, and she feels his disappointment radiating palpably from the laptop.

"We know," she returns, running her fingers through George's hair. "And it's alright. We'll celebrate whenever you come home."

He grabs a tissue, wiping his face again, and she knows he is overcome just as she is, but he has no George with him to hold and cuddle. God, she aches for him all over, and she holds her son even closer, wrapping both of her children up in a motherly cocoon she wishes could extend all the way to Poland.

George yawns then, one that stretches his entire face, and Mary yawns along with him, making Charles chuckle from the other side of the laptop.

"I think my family could use some sleep," he muses, and she feels the depth of his sentiment.

"Yes," she answers. "We could. It's amazing how much sleep I require these days. I'd forgotten, actually."

He nods, still looking awestruck, and George snuggles into the crook of her arm, yawning yet again.

"I'm not tired," the boys insists, making his father laugh and his mother sigh.

"Then go snuggle up with your mother and keep her warm, alright? Her feet always get terribly cold at night."

"How did you know I was sleeping with Mummy while you were gone?" George asks, staring at Charles somewhat dumbfounded.

"Because fathers just know these things," Charles returns, making her son stare up at her with rounded eyes doing their best to remain open.

"It's true," she affirms, wrapping her arms about him tighter, her eyes now locked with her husband's. "You get some rest, as well. Wife's orders."

The smile he flashes her is downright wicked and full of so much it nearly bowls her over.

"Orders I know better than to disobey," he states, that smirk of his unable to overpower the ridiculous grin on his face. "Although I'm not sure how well I'll sleep the way my mind is now spinning. I'm just…"

He pauses, sending her a look she feels to her bones.

"I love all of you. Very much."

"We love you, too, Daddy," George returns, leaning forward to touch his nose the screen, meeting his father's there in this ritual they have established since Charles has been away.

"Yes," she echoes, looking at him directly once George leans back. "We do. Be safe, Charles. And come home soon."

He gazes back at her, knowing what happened the last time she delivered a child, understanding the bone-crushing loss she has already endured and just how hard it is for her to be apart from him just now. Especially now. Her hand resettles on her stomach.

"I'll track down a reindeer, if I must," he grins, and George giggles before he is struck with yet another yawn.

"Bring me a reindeer, Daddy," the boy pleads, and Mary shoots him a _Now look what you've done_ glance, a look he shrugs off.

"I'll see what I can do," Charles smiles, inhaling deeply again. "Although I hear they do eat a lot of rubbish."

George laughs, and Mary shakes her head at their antics, perfectly accustomed to their silliness at bedtime but feeling it more keenly with one party so far away.

"Good night, my loves," Charles breathes, reaching out to touch the screen yet again. "God, you've made me so happy tonight. I wish I was there with you."

"You make us happy, too," George replies. "Come home, Daddy."

She sees his eyes close, watches as he fights back more tears, and they blow him kisses.

"I'll do everything I can," he replies quietly, and her heart sinks, understanding then that it will take nothing short of a miracle to get him back by Christmas.

She later stares at the blank screen after George is sleeping soundly in her bed, finally standing up to put the laptop to rest and go to bed herself. It is then that she sees it, a letter written in red crayon lying on the kitchen table, one she doesn't remember seeing earlier this evening. She picks it up, her hands trembling at the uncertain hand of her nearly five year old son.

_Deer Fathr Krismas,_

_Plez forget wat I asked for befor. I just want my Daddy home for Krismas. Thats all._

_Luv,_

_George_

Oh, God.

She cries openly then, clutching the note to her heart, knowing she should show it to Charles, but wondering if he would be more touched or distraught by it. She'll keep it until he comes home, she decides, and she folds the note gently, carrying it with her into the bedroom and it sliding into the drawer of her nightstand quietly so as to not wake George.

Her mattress pulls her into the sheets, and she snuggles into thick blankets and soft pillows, feeling her lower back thank her and her body begin to unwind. She misses him, misses him badly, and is thankful that George is in bed with her, making it not as lonely as it would be otherwise.

"Come home," she whispers to the ceiling, resting her palm on her stomach one last time before she closes her eyes and allows sleep to draw her under.

* * *

Christmas Eve is difficult and draining, enduring dinner with her family when she can barely stomach the smell of food, trying not to give away the secret of her pregnancy, avoiding her mother's pointed glances that silently alert her to the fact that Cora already knows.

But it is listening to George explain to his Uncle Tom that his Daddy will be back tomorrow that makes her want to both scream and run sobbing from the room.

"Is he really, Mary?" Tom inquires, beaming back at her from the floor where he is playing with Sybbie and George.

"Yes," George answers for her. "I asked Father Christmas to bring Daddy home, so he'll be here tomorrow."

Her eyes lock with her brother-in-laws, and he sees the worry on her face.

"Your Da might be too big to fit in his sack, George," Tom attempts, making Sybbie giggle.

"Father Christmas is magic," George insists. "Don't worry, Uncle Tom. Daddy will be here."

They trade glances yet again, Tom shrugging, Mary feeling her stomach tighten as it grows closer and closer to time to go home.

She finally gets George to sleep, amazed and a bit angry that there has been no message from Charles before the boy's bedtime, especially on Christmas Eve. But George hadn't minded in the slightest, convinced as he was that his father was in route to their house this very moment, and he had settled somewhat easily, flipping back and forth on the bed like a fish out of water before he finally settled.

But it hasn't been so easy for her.

It is late, she is tired, her head hurts, and she wonders again just what she can say to her son to ease his disappointment that she hasn't already said.

_Sometimes Father Christmas can't bring us everything we want, George._

_I know, Mummy. But I only asked for one thing. I know he can take care of that._

Damn it. Damn all this magical nonsense, this hoping for miracles that can never happen and government trips that take fathers and husbands away on Christmas.

And to top it all off, now she is hungry.

She scarfs down a piece of toast and some warm milk, careful not to disturb the plate of "rubbish" George has left out for his reindeer. He'll be heartbroken come morning, there's no way around it. What sort of Happy Christmas is that for a little boy?

What sort of Happy Christmas is it for her?

It takes her some time to finally settle, but she does eventually sleep, falling into one uninterrupted by dreams or the need to relieve herself, and she wakes slowly, stretching like a spoiled house cat, praying her stomach remains calm.

She blinks her eyes open gradually, realizing fragment by fragment that George is not snuggled up next to her as is his regular habit. She then sits up with a start, her heart pounding out of her chest, for there are not two of them in the bed, but three.

It can't be, but it is. She rubs her eyes, certain she must be dreaming, but she isn't, and she reaches for her glasses on her bedside table, making sure that she's seeing what she thinks she's seeing.

It's him. Charles. In their bed. With George curled up into his chest like a downy-headed shrimp.

Her breath catches, and he must have heard her, for he stirs just then, blinking up at her, tossing her a sleep-laden smile she feels all over.

"What? How?" she stammers, and he lays his finger over his lips as George moves his legs.

He leans forward over the blonde head, and she meets him there, lips touching, caressing, kissing as passionately as they can with a four and a half year old between them.

"I begged," he admits, and she laughs through her nose, puffs of air that nearly give her the hiccups. "I told my boss that I have a son now, a son who hasn't had a father at Christmas since he's been in this world, and that it would be a terrible shame for him to endure yet another holiday without one."

Her eyes widen, and she attempts to swallow down the taste of morning in her mouth.

"And when I added that you just found out that you're pregnant, well…"

He breaks off, looking back at her with the same intensity he did at their wedding.

"What can I say?" he whispers. "Thankfully, at heart Mr. Hanover is a family man. He booked me the next flight out of Warsaw with his blessings and orders to give George the best Christmas of his life."

Her eyes tear up, she can't help it, and she touches his face, stroking his rough stubble before moving her lips down to his once again. His arm reaches over George and pulls her close, and they lie there together, breathing in this moment, reveling in the nearness of family. His hand then strays to her belly, and she stares at him intently, covering his hand with her palm as he tries to take it all in.

"When?" he breathes, pressing his lips together as George stirs once again.

"July," she replies, watching as her son's eyelids begin to flutter open. The boy drowsily smiles up at her before yawning and turning his face towards the man holding him close and warm. George then sits up straight as an arrow, staring at his father open-mouthed.

"Happy Christmas, George," Charles smiles, and the boy flings himself into his arms, laughter and tears spilling out of both parents until they're all lying again on the mattress in a tangled heap.

"I told you, Mummy," George grins. "I told you Father Christmas would bring him home."

Charles looks over at her, and she nods, biting her lower lip. He inhales deeply, kissing the boy's head yet again.

"So I'm your present?" Charles asks incredulously, unable to hide the amazement in his voice.

"Yes," George answers as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Wait! Did you bring me a reindeer?"

Charles beams back at him, rolling out of bed to grab a neatly wrapped box from the dresser.

"Why don't you open it and see," he answers, grinning at the excitement in the boy's face. George tears into the paper, tossing it all over the bed until he gets to a simple brown box, one he pries open immediately.

"Wow," he breathes, pulling a wooden puppet from the box, a reindeer, obviously, and Charles takes the handles, moving its legs while George claps his hands. "Did he eat his rubbish?"

"He did, indeed," Charles replies. "Every last morsel."

Mary rolls her eyes at him, knowing full well who ate the snacks, wondering how Charles has gotten by this far without a belly-ache. She knows her morning sickness will hit soon, hates the thought of Charles seeing her like this, but she presses those thoughts away, reveling in the fact that he is here, here with her and George and their unborn child.

And it's Christmas. Her heart does a funny somersault in her chest.

"Happy Christmas, Mary," he whispers, kissing her soundly as George plays with his marionette, trying to figure out how to make the reindeer walk forward rather than backward.

"Happy Christmas, Charles," she answers, sinking into him as their day begins, suddenly certain that the New Year will be indeed be full of wonder.


End file.
